


You Could Stay

by orphan_account



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Deceit | Janus Sanders, Background Light Sides - Freeform, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Body Swap, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Identity Swap, Mild Language, Sympathetic Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Unsympathetic Sides (Sanders Sides), disturbing imagery, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Roman goes to Remus to get his mind off things. When Remus finds out what, exactly, is bothering him, Remus decides that enough is enough and gives Roman a surprising offer.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761118
Comments: 27
Kudos: 140





	You Could Stay

Remus hums as he stirs the pot situated on the stove, bouncing on his heels. It’d been a good day; not that anyone else cared that he’d had a good day, but still, good. The Imagination is in good shape, Thomas’ intrusive thoughts have reached an all-time low, and he had plenty of freedom now that Janus is out of the picture. No ill will to his old friend, of course, but sometimes, being put on a leash could just be downright exhausting. And considering that the wedding had happened a few weeks ago, the Mind Palace, or at least his side of it, is quiet.

And because quiet usually means boredom, which usually leads to hunger, Remus cooks.

He’s about to add eyeballs (not human, unfortunately; he should probably restock) when the door to his room crashes in, Remus yelping and scrambling with the spoon in his hand before turning to the door with a glare.

“Uh, excuse me, what the _fuck_ —”

He stops, of course, when he sees his brother standing there, disheveled and crying. Well, not quite crying, at least not yet; the tears form in his eyes, hidden behind his unruly hair, but they don’t fall, his mouth quivering but held in a stubborn frown to keep his composure. It’s now that Remus realizes how Roman’s clothes barely fit him, hanging off his shoulders and fraying at the ends. One of his boots are untied.

Roman leans against the doorway, expression softening slightly as he looks around. “Room for one more?” he asks.

Remus looks him up and down, slowly setting the spoon aside. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, “though I gotta say, with how shitty you look, if you have actual shit on you, you better hand it over. It’s going in the pot.”

Roman rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue—and that’s a red flag if there ever was one. Roman always comments on his disgusting, disturbing thoughts. _Always_.

Instead, he sits down at the table, head in his hands. “What are you making?”

Remus’ face lights up at the question, the Side leaning against the table on his elbows, “Monster soup!”

Roman looks at him from behind his fingers, raising an eyebrow. “…Monster…soup?” he repeats.

“Yup! Still need to add eyeballs, though.” Remus pauses, thinking it over. “…and the butt sauce.”

He waits for a reaction, watching his brother closely—only to deflate when Roman lays his forehead against the table, hearing him mumble something unintelligible.

Remus frowns, picking at his nails. Turning back to the pot, recollecting his spoon, he asks over his shoulder, “So, what brought your saggy-ass down here, anyway? I haven’t seen you since my introduction.”

He hears a snort, Roman readjusting in his chair. “You _wish_ I’d come down here more.”

“Fuck yeah! The others aren’t as fun to prank—and it’s not like ol’ Jannie’s coming back now that he’s wormed his way up Thomas’ and Patton’s butts. He used to always talk about it, y’know—the moment he could, he’d leave this place for good. And he got it!”

That earns a scoff, “Yeah, well, hopefully it’s not permanent.”

The spoon in Remus’ hands stills. He pulls away slowly, face clouded with confusion, “No?”

Roman shakes his head, slow and deliberate. Remus feels like he’s watching it in slow motion, the caving in of Roman’s posture and the shaking of his frame.

Remus tenses, feeling more exposed than a live wire. He chews on his lip to keep from yelling—not at Roman, but just to lessen the nerves.

Goddammit. Why did he have to be the responsible one? Why did he have to be the one to put his brother back together?

And why is it becoming such a common occurrence?

Sighing, turning off the burner and walking back over to the table, he sits down, leaning against the other’s shoulder. Usually he wouldn’t get this close—Roman’s fruity, overpowering shampoo drove him nuts almost as much as his own rotting stench bothered his brother—but judging by how Roman doesn’t pull away, it’s not unwelcome. In fact, he feels Roman lean in, and if Remus could eat his confusion, he would just to be rid of it.

“You still haven’t fixed all that shit with the others?” he asks, the usual manic tone absent. “It’s been weeks, Broman. Surely you can shrug off a little insult and talk it over with Tom-Tom until everything’s back in order.”

Roman hums, running his hands down his face. “That’s not what’s been bothering me.”

“Bullshit,” Remus snorts. He taps his fingers on the table, continuing, “I can’t imagine anything else that’s happened since the wedding that could’ve made you cry like this.”

He shakes his head once, twice. Three times.

And then he says something that makes Remus’ confusion flip into full-blown rage.

“He hinted at the switch.”

The reaction is immediate; not over the top, because Remus’ anger is never over the top. His smile grows sharp, humorless, nails digging into the table to the point pieces of wood jab into his skin. But he doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw things, doesn’t go on a rampage.

Instead, voice so low it comes out as a growl, he says, “We don’t talk about _the switch_.”

“I would rather not,” Roman agrees, “but he did. Or, tried to—did it right in front of everyone else. Just so he could get a rise out of me.” He shrinks further into his chair, “And he’s right. I _am_ evil; no matter what I try to do to get away from it, I’m always gonna be the bad twin. Always gonna be _you_.”

Remus clenches his jaw, looking away from his brother. Trying, and failing, to force the violent thoughts to the background long enough to think. It’s a maze, sometimes, trying to navigate between intrusive thoughts and his own, and at the moment, all he can think about is grabbing Janus and throwing him into a blender.

“…Do you ever regret it?” Roman asks when Remus doesn’t say anything.

He blinks back to reality, “Regret what?”

“Swapping places.” Even quieter, adding, “Going from Roman to Remus.”

Remus narrows his eyes. His mouth curls into a frown, teeth set as he answers, “ _No_.”

Roman studies his face. _Really_ studies it—so much so Remus contemplates if it’d be better to claw off his skin and roll around in salt, because whenever Roman looks at him like _that_ , he _does_ regret it. Not because of his situation, but Roman’s.

And that’s about the point where Remus snaps.

“No. You know what? I don’t regret it, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t, either.” Slamming his hands down on the table, standing so fast that his chair clatters sideways on the floor, he fixes Roman with a stare, voice almost rising to a shout but the Side just managing to keep it level when he sees how hard Roman startles. “The whole reason we switched to begin with was because of how _they_ treated _me_! I wanted freedom, and I got it, and clearly, a few years with them tells me that they haven’t gotten any better. They aren’t treating _you_ any better! Which is a bunch of bullshit, because I’d argue out of everyone you deserve just a little bit of respect, being Thomas’ pride and all—”

“Remus,” Roman warns, “you’re starting to ramble.”

“—I will ramble as much as I fucking please!” He jabs a finger in the other’s chest, “And so will you!”

Now it’s Roman’s turn to be confused, “What?”

Remus’ grin turns manic. “Talk! Talk about anything, whatever you want—hell, _do_ whatever you want, I don’t care! Scream! Cry! Go commit murder—ooh, I have lighter fluid you can borrow!”

“Let’s not do that last one, please.”

“Whatever! You can do whatever you want when you’re with me. You could _stay down here with me_ if it means you don’t walk around like a kicked puppy all the time. I…” Remus falters, voice softening, “I’m not going to judge you like they will. It’d be better for you, I think, to get away from them.”

Roman’s eyes widen, the Side’s hands bunching up into fists in his lap. His breathing stutters. “Are—are you sure you’re okay with that?” he asks.

Remus scoffs, “Roman, I’m your brother. Of course I’m fine with it!” It’s better than watching him self-destruct.

His brother considers this, lowering his gaze, face twisted with enough conflict it’s a wonder it doesn’t tear in two. “…Okay.”

His chest constricts, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Then, not looking at him, Roman says, “…Thanks, Ro.”

Remus rocks back on his heels, grin growing crooked. It’s weird, really, to be referred by that nickname again—but if his brother wants to play that game, he doesn’t mind playing along. “Anytime, Re.”

Roman gives him a small, fragile smile—but, it’s a smile, and Remus will take what he can get. Eyes fixing on the pot across from them, he asks, gesturing with a wave of his hand, “Do you need help cooking?”

Remus claps his hands together, and if it’s not for Roman rolling his eyes and grabbing his wrist, pulling him to the stove, he might’ve vibrated hard enough to fall through the floor.

And yes, it’s messy; everything about them is. Neither of them will ever be perfect—but, they think, maybe they don’t have to be.

Maybe this is their perfect, and if you asked them, it’s enough.


End file.
